


A Planet with No Zoloft

by cymanox



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Angst, Backstory, Child Abuse, Flashbacks, Gen, PTSD, Panic Attacks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-04
Updated: 2018-02-04
Packaged: 2019-03-13 11:22:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13569549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cymanox/pseuds/cymanox
Summary: Spending that much time digging deep into his childhood? Forcing himself to recall days spent tilling and seeding and shoveling so much manure his fingernails would be black for a week?It was never going to end well for him.Takes place sometime during Hotel Spa Potions. Content warnings in the tags.





	A Planet with No Zoloft

It’s been two weeks since he delivered the last bag of fertilizer. Crops are starting to grow, the farmers are happy, and for once things in Fillory are … pretty much okay.

And High King Eliot the Spectacular is frozen to his royal goddamn couch.

He’s known this was coming ever since he first realized that Fillorians didn’t know shit about farming. Spending that much time digging deep into his childhood? Forcing himself to recall days spent tilling and seeding and shoveling so much fucking manure his fingernails would be black for a week?

It was never going to end well for him. Like he’d told Fen: it was going to be a lot harder to manage the panic attacks in a world with no Zoloft.

Well, okay, maybe he hadn’t actually mentioned the panic attacks. Or explained what Zoloft was. But it was a lot easier to be honest about your fears when the other person had no idea what the fuck you were talking about.

At least he managed to put it off for a while; manage the crisis first. Now that things have calmed down, he’s free to spend as much time as he wants overcome by flashbacks. It’s grand.

 

_Footsteps._

_A twelve-year-old Eliot jumps at the sound, hastily rearranging himself into a more casual slouch at his desk. Real men didn’t cross their legs and sit up straight like that, Dad always said._

_Sure enough, a shadow at the door._

_“I thought I asked you to clean out the stables today.”_

_Shit. He’d forgotten._

_“I -- I’m really sorry, Dad. I forgot. I’ll do it first thing in the morning, I promise.”_

_His father steps further into his room, and Eliot fights the urge to stand up and shrink back against the far wall. Showing fear this early would only make it worse._

_“Will you? Or will you just forget again?” Dad’s voice is still soft, casual. Maybe he can keep things calm; find some way to placate him --_

 

Eliot’s own sharp intake of breath pulls him back to reality. He feels his heart beginning to race and clutches his knees, reminding himself that he’s in Fillory; he’s home; he’s safe. He tries to control his breathing -- he knows avoiding hyperventilation is half the battle --

 

_“You useless piece of shit!” A sudden lunge, and he jerks back as the homework in front of him goes flying, the papers swiped off the desk._

_So much for keeping this from escalating. Mom was right -- he needed to be more conscientious about his chores, more aware of his tone when he spoke. He was always provoking his father like this._

_“I won’t forget, I swear. I’ll do it in the morning.” His voice starts to rise in panic and fear. He’s never been good at hiding it. He’s weak that way._

_“Let’s make sure you have a reminder. Just in case.”_

_There’s a familiar slither of leather through belt loops as he instinctively curls into his chair._

 

Back in Fillory, the choked gasps begin.


End file.
